


Foxy

by Villainyandgoodcheekbones



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, and caffinated magics known only to Bahorel who keeps the ancient secrets, assuming of course that you find yourself wanting one now, in which there is gold paint, the genderswap you never you knew you wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:31:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Villainyandgoodcheekbones/pseuds/Villainyandgoodcheekbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not a good day, but the end isn’t bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foxy

It’s just…

It’s not a good day. It starts with the realization that the only clean shirt left is the one that’s too small. And not the “oops-this-is-just- _too_ -small-I-do-hope-nobody-notices” of shirts you wear when you want _everybody_ to notice, it legitimately does not fit anymore. It’s the shirt of last-resort, sleeves hacked off god knows how long ago, too tight across the chest and it rides up _just_ enough to be embarrassing instead of intentional.

By the same token, the only pants left are the jeans which are too big, with holes in the knees and thighs and one right above the left back pocket. The jeans that you have to hold on your hips by keeping one hand in your pocket at all times, since half the belt-loops have worn through. And she’s down to the bra-with-the-strap-that-won’t-stay-up and the leopard-print (or what would be leopard print, if leopards starting dropping acid) boy-shorts which she hates, but which were a gag gift from Grantaire (who is an ass).

And then, it’s a studio day, and Feuilly’s feeling _inspired._ She wants to add _detail_ and makes this one _special_ , so she pulls out the gold-leaf and the thin brushes, and works so, _so_ carefully…

And still ends up with Midas hands and a gold stripe across one eyebrow that _won’t_ come off, and flecks of it in her hair and her bracelet is turning her left wrist green under the freckles. And there’s no time to make it back home before her shift starts. So she clocks in and fixes her hopeless mess of a bun as best she can, cursing the day she was born a ginger with too much hair. Thank god it’s a yuppie art-supply shop, or she’d never get away with coming in looking like she does.  That’s the advantage of yuppie art-supply shops.

The disadvantage is the clientele. There’s a man in a scarf, who’s been staring at Feuilly for twenty minutes now. It’s getting creepy.

He asks for help getting something off the one of the higher shelves, so she helps him and doesn’t blush when her bra strap slides down as she reaches up. The sudden change in coloration is merely a side-effect of the ugly fluorescent light-bulbs. Obviously. Then he asks for her help reaching the bottom shelves, because he has bad knees. Bullshit. Bull _shit_. But there’s nobody else around, so she sinks down onto her heels (like hell is she going to bend over) and pops back up with jar of forest-green. She even smiles politely when she hands it over. Then he asks for advice on what might go with forest green. Then he asks where in the store he might find all of that, then he asks if she’ll show him and finally, when her shift is _finally_ over, as Feuilly is walking out the door, he hands her a creamy white business card. There’s a camera and phone number printed on the front, and he says “I’m on a shoot here for three weeks. Would you be willing to pose for me?” The back of the card says “Dieter Truppel” in block caps.

Feuilly doesn’t stammer when she tells him she’ll think about it.

She does stammer when she tells Grantaire, flat on her back on the couch with her phone to her ear and an arm over her eyes.

“No, I just–No, I didn’t even– Look, okay, sure, I guess it’s kind of flattering, but honestly– No, I am _not_ gonna– it was just…He was fucking _creepy_. And what the hell kind of a name is Dieter Truppel?”

It’s one of _those_ days, so, of course, that’s exactly when Bahorel, in a sports bra and sweatpants, walks in, still flushed from the gym. Bahorel will charge head-long right into the teeth of impossible odds and punch those teeth right the fuck out. That is not why Bahorel is actually terrifying at times. Bahorel is terrifying because she can do that, but she also knows when to rush in, and when to _wait._ Bahorel says nothing at all. She tosses her shoes into the corner and shakes out her hair and says absolutely _nothing_ until Feuilly puts the phone down. Then she drawls, with a predatory grin, “So who the hell _is_ Dieter Truppel?”

God. This day, this _day_ , just…

“A guy.”

Bahorel hums. “Mmmm. The kind of guy I need to track down so I can break his kneecaps?” Her chin is resting on her folded arms, propped on the back of the couch.

“No, he just….” She’s not blushing. She’s really not. “He asked me to model for him.” And Bahorel bursts out laughing, throwing her head back, and laughing and laughing and laughing like a bell, shoulders shaking. Feuilly throws a cushion at her, which smacks Bahorel solidly in the chest and only makes her laugh harder. “Shut _up_. It has been a shit day and I don’t even know why the hell anybody would even ask me that in the first place!” Bahorel’s not laughing anymore. Instead, she’s looking at Feuilly with a fond, half-pitying expression.

“Oh,” she says “oh, you are just _too_ fucking cute. He asked you, presumably because he’s a straight man.”

Feuilly glares at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Feuilly. Feuilly, you are a fox. You are foxy. Were I endowed with a cock of my own, I would absolutely spend every fucking second here trying and failing to hide my raging hard-on, and be forced to take you in a manly fashion on the floor” She drapes herself over the back of the couch again “And then everybody else would have to come kick my ass. Courferyac would end up holding me down, and Grantaire would hit me and Combeferre would be there, to point out all the really good places to hit so it really fucking hurts.”

Feuilly rolls her eyes. “They would not.”

And Bahorel shrugs one shoulder and her hair slides along her collarbone and Feuilly licks her lips and Bahorel says “Yeah they would, they like you. I’d kick my ass, too.”

“You’d kick anyone’s ass. Half the time you don’t even wait for an excuse.”

“Fuck you. That is outright slander, it is not _half_ the time. Twenty percent of the time, _maybe_.” Silence. “Thirty at the outside.” Silence. “Definitely not more than forty”. Silence. “Screw you. I retract all previous statements, and I’m leaving you here to die.” Bahorel pushes herself up (the movement of muscle under her the skin of her arms is entirely uninteresting) and stalks into the kitchen. There’s a banging of cupboards and the scent of coffee.

“To die” Feuilly raises her eyebrows, craning her neck around. Their percolator is desperately old, and must be coaxed to life by strange and ancient magics known only to Bahorel.

“To die,” she confirms from behind the counter. “I’m just going to ditch the place and let you rot here.”

“Oh, my poor foxy corpse. Left couch-ridden and alone.” Feuilly deadpans “So I just…. lie there, neglected, because you’re not going to do anything.” Feuilly props one cheek up on her fist and watches Bahorel streeeeetch up, straining for a mug just out of reach. Boring. Very boring, very dull, nothing interesting about that at all, nothing you’d sketch maybe, later, in charcoal and red ochre. The mugs clinks down on the counter and Bahorel drums her knuckles on the handle and says “Not a goddamn thing.”

The percolator hisses and spits.

“What if I asked first?”

Bahorel breathes out very, very slowly through her nose. It takes hours, _years_ for her to saunter lazily back to the couch, tapping her fingers along her jawline the way she does when she’s sizing up just how much trouble Enjolras will let her get away with _this_ time. “Well. _Well_ then. You would probably stop being so damn _snarky_ , and you would let me do this,” Her mouth is hot against the shell of Feuilly’s ear. “and this” Bahorel hasn’t unwrapped her hands yet, and the bandages tickle. “And this”

It’s not a good day, but the end isn’t bad.


End file.
